


Turning Back That Blue Into Red

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:56:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: Peter's not happy when Neal gets hurt trying to protect him. What comes after that, for all of them, is even worse.





	Turning Back That Blue Into Red

**Author's Note:**

> The denizens of the wcwu chat told me to give Neal pneumonia, so this is totally their fault. There may or may not be some medical hand-waving here. The title is from Thea Gilmore's "Breathe."
> 
> Apparently I had left this work off of AO3, so now it's here. :)

Peter curled around Neal on the bed and looked at the edge of the white bandage he could see curving around the side of Neal's forehead. His chest tightened at the thought of what had almost happened and the memory of what had actually happened, and he held Neal closer in response.  
  
"You've got to stop trying to get yourself killed," Peter murmured into Neal's ear.  
  
"I've been telling _you_ that for years," El said, lifting her head from the pillow to look at Peter. She was curled up facing them, one smooth leg brushing over Peter's legs, the other nestled up against Neal's.  
  
Peter cringed at the thought of El feeling this kind of fear for him. "I'm sorry, hon."  
  
Neal sighed, more awake than Peter had thought. "Forgive me for wanting to keep you alive."  
  
"Not at your expense. Never at your expense."  
  
"Hey, you're both right here where I want you. I don't want to argue." El finished off the statement with a wide yawn, and Neal echoed it, his body rolling just a little to settle more heavily against Peter's.   
  
Peter stayed silent as they both fell asleep, El's face calm and beautiful in the dim streetlight that filtered through the blinds, Neal's body warm and lax in Peter's arms. Peter didn't let himself fall asleep with them. He couldn't, not with the taste of chlorine still on his lips and the sight of Neal unconscious in the water tainting his mind.  
  
If only VanHanan hadn't been such a paranoid asshole, the whole thing could have been avoided. He and Neal had tracked down VanHanan to the swimming pool in the basement of his exclusive club, and one minute Peter was attempting to question him then suddenly VanHanan had worked his way around to his gym bag and produced a gun. VanHanan wasn't going to shoot anybody; Peter had been sure of it, almost sure, but Neal hadn't felt the same.  
  
Peter had lost track of Neal's location in the room, and as VanHanan lifted the gun to point it at Peter, Neal appeared in his peripheral vision and threw himself at VanHanan. Neal sacked him like a linebacker, and the gun went flying into the pool, a small splash followed by the bigger splash of Neal landing in the water. Peter was in the middle of cuffing VanHanan and contemplating just how angry Neal was going to be at the damage done to his suit and shoes when he realized that he hadn't heard Neal climb out of the pool.  
  
With the adrenaline that had been easing its way out of his body flooding back in, Peter turned around and saw Neal in the water--face-down, a tendril of blood streaming from his head into the water. He thought that he must have shouted, must have said something, but the only sounds he could remember were the rush of blood in his ears, the thud of his knees on concrete and the heavy squelch of water as he hoisted Neal up out of the water. His hands shook as he guided Neal down to lay on his side on the pool room floor, and Neal fell the last few inches. He hit the floor with a jerk and a long, ragged gasp followed by heaving coughs as he struggled to clear his airway.  
  
Peter wrapped his own jacket around Neal's wet clothes, afraid to move him enough to strip off his clothes, scared that he might aggravate some terrible injury he couldn't see. Backup arrived, and Peter sat next to Neal on the cold floor, making sure he kept breathing until the paramedics came. Peter had to watch as they put him on a backboard, covered him with a heavy blanket and rolled him away. He had to watch and remind himself that Neal was breathing. Again. Still.  
  
Later, Peter stood next to Neal's bed in the emergency room and listened to the doctor explain that Neal had been lucky. He only had a minor concussion from striking his head on the edge of the pool, and he hadn't been without oxygen for long enough to cause any problems. Neal was discharged with instructions to rest and a list of symptoms to watch out for, and Peter held Neal close, not even trying to pretend that he was just keeping Neal warm. El met them at home, and after a quiet dinner for them all and a long, hot shower for Neal they went to bed.  
  
Peter thought that he would never get to sleep, but somewhere in the middle of imagining the worst case scenarios that hadn't happened, he dropped off with his face pressed against the back of Neal's head, breathing in the warm, alive smell of him all night long.  
  
~~~  
  
Two days later, Neal was back at work, and every time he felt Peter's eyes on him he would catch Peter with a look on face that was an uncomfortable combination of anger and worry. Neal contained a sigh and tried to focus on the file he was reading because there was nothing else he could do. Telling Peter once again that he was fine--that taking down VanHanan by jumping toward the pool had been a calculated risk, that his luck had just failed him for one critical moment--would get him nothing but another one of those angry, worried frowns.   
  
Elizabeth, at least, didn't seem to be angry with him, but she wasn't advocating for him with Peter either. Neal had enjoyed being fussed over the day after he got hurt--El wrapping him in the warmest blanket to keep him warm in the air-conditioned living room and then bringing him ice packs for his head--but the headache from the mild concussion was gone, and Neal was on his own. He figured that he would just play the dutiful CI for a few days and Peter would get over his anger, relax his worried protectiveness. There was nothing else to do.  
  
Neal felt a tickle in his chest and stifled the cough to avoid catching Peter's attention. He wasn't getting sick, it was just the cool, dry air of the building irritating his throat. Outside, the city was warm and humid, leaving him sweating even in his lightest suits. Inside, the overactive air conditioning left anybody unfortunate enough to be close to a vent shivering with cold. Neal looked up from his seat at the table and didn't see a vent, but the air flow in the office could be as complicated as global wind currents. Neal thought he should probably get Mozzie to investigate sometime.  
  
By the end of the work day, Neal was tired from spending so much time sitting around in meetings. He could only spend so many nights at Peter and Elizabeth's house without risking unwanted attention from the Marshals, so he said goodbye to Peter and headed out, finally escaping the cloud of Peter's emotions. When he stepped outside into the sticky heat, the tickle in his chest bloomed into a cough, and before Neal could suppress it he was full-on hacking until he was left panting with an ache in his chest and a bad taste in his mouth. Neal swallowed down the taste and the urge to cough again and hailed a cab.  
  
By the time Neal entered the comfortable environment of June's empty house--cooler than outside but not as arctic as the office--he was having a difficult time convincing himself he wasn't sick. He climbed the stairs more slowly than usual then collected a glass of water and his bottle of Tylenol and sat down at the table. Another cough surprised him after he swallowed the pills, and in the middle of trying to quiet the cough and catch his breath, Neal stumbled to his feet and hurried over to the kitchen sink, worried that he was going to cough up the pills as his stomach churned from the force of the coughs.   
  
After a moment, both his lungs and his stomach settled but he bent over the sink anyway and spat out the sour tasting gunk that had settled in the back of his throat. Neal ran the water to clear it away without looking then walked over to the couch with his glass of water. It was far too early for bed, and Neal knew he needed to do practical things like making dinner but he wasn't hungry yet. He turned the TV on to some kind of travel show and slumped down on the couch, idly rubbing at his sore chest until he fell asleep.  
  
Neal woke to his phone, Elizabeth's ringtone, in his apartment lit by the dim sunlight of a long summer evening. He took a deep breath to wake himself up and found himself coughing again. He got it under control more quickly this time, but not soon enough to catch the phone call before it rolled over to voicemail. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water then hit the button to return Elizabeth's call.  
  
"Hey, I thought maybe you were avoiding me." The smile was clear in her voice.  
  
"Never. I was just too far away from my phone to catch it in time."  
  
"Well, I just wanted to say hi. I hate it when I don't get to see you."  
  
"Me too. Good thing there aren't too many more months left before I can get rid of this anklet."  
  
"That'll be nice." She was quiet for a few breaths. "Are you okay? Your voice sounds off."  
  
"I'm fine. My throat's just a little dry from the a/c in the office."  
  
"Hmm, okay. Well, you sound tired too. Get some rest, and I'll see you tomorrow?"  
  
"Absolutely. I love you." Neal closed his eyes, still feeling a little overwhelmed at how good it was to be able to say that to somebody--to two somebodies, to Peter and Elizabeth. How good it was to say those words and mean them.  
  
"I love you too."   
  
Neal disconnected the call then stood up and stretched. He looked over at the kitchen and knew he should find something for dinner, but the thought made a touch of nausea twist his stomach so he headed straight for the bathroom. A shower and an early night sounded much better than food. The hot shower felt good on his achy body but breathing in the water-saturated air was irritating his already fractious chest, so Neal turned off the water as soon as he was clean. A few minutes later, the last sunlight of the day softly shining through the windows, Neal climbed into bed and sank back into sleep.  
  
In the morning, after a long, restless night, Neal thought about calling in sick. He definitely had some kind of chest cold, but in his experience staying home feeling sorry for himself made him feel worse rather than better. Plus, calling in sick would turn Peter's worry up to a level past discomfort, and Neal was hoping to avoid that. He left the house early enough to pick up some cold medicine and a big cup of iced tea, and by the time he got to work he wasn't having to work so hard to keep from coughing. He was still tired, but it was Friday and there weren't any hot cases running so he expected it to be a light day.   
  
Even at 8am, the city was almost unbearably hot, and Neal was actually looking forward to the cooler environment of the office. When his entrance into the lobby of the building didn't set off a new round of coughing, Neal said a quiet thanks to the cold medicine and headed up to meet Peter.  
  
~~~  
  
Peter paced in his office, waiting for Neal to show up in the office. He'd broken down and checked Neal's anklet location, and Neal was on his way then. When Neal walked in through the glass doors from the elevators, Peter almost called him up to his office, but he decided it would be more efficient to just meet Neal at his desk.  
  
"Hey," he said, and when Neal jerked his head up and took off his hat Peter didn't like the pallor of his face one bit.  
  
"Good morning," Neal said, giving Peter a dimmed version of his usual smile. "What's going on?" His voice sounded rough, like El had described.  
  
"I was concerned." _I am concerned._ "You didn't return my call last night."  
  
"You called?" Neal's confusion looked genuine as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed it on. "I'm sorry, I must have been in the shower when you called, and I didn't check it again before bed. Was there something you needed to tell me?"  
  
"El said you sounded sick, and I wanted to check on you myself." Peter sighed; he wanted to pull Neal in close but the bullpen was the wrong place for that. "You don't look so great."  
  
Neal gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "I didn't sleep very well, and I think I'm getting a cold. I'm okay."  
  
"You want to go home? I have a meeting, but I can get somebody to run you home if you don't feel well."  
  
"I'm _fine_ , just not at my best. I'll take it easy at my desk. Drink my iced tea." Neal lifted the clear plastic cup in his hand.  
  
Peter studied Neal, and beyond the pale skin and scratchy voice, Neal looked a little bit rough around the edges--his clothes less crisp than usual, beads of sweat along his hairline. But it was already in the 80s outside, muggy with the temperature climbing, and there was nothing Peter could use to make Neal go home or to a doctor. "Okay," he said finally. "If you change your mind while I'm in the meeting, just text me, let Diana know and just go ahead and go home."  
  
Neal met Peter's eyes then and gave him just a hint of the smile that said _I love you_. "Okay. I'll see you later."  
  
Peter nodded and patted Neal on the shoulder before reluctantly turning to leave.  
  
He was two long hours into the torturously tedious budget meeting when a quick knock at the door to the conference room was followed by Diana pushing the door open. Peter knew she would never intrude unless it was a true emergency, and he felt his mouth go dry at the sight of fear on her face. "Di?"  
  
"Boss, it's Neal."  
  
Peter couldn't remember, later, if he'd said anything to the other agents in the meeting, and he couldn't remember the elevator ride with Diana or walking down the halls. He wished he couldn't remember the sight of Neal on the floor outside the men's room, breathing in quick, ragged gasps, his lips turning blue in his gray-pale face, his eyes wide and bright with desperation and fear. Somebody had already called 911, and Clinton Jones was on his knees in front of Neal but he stood as Peter stumbled down at his side. Neal's face was cold and clammy between Peter's palms, but a small measure of the panic in his face calmed when he made eye contact with Peter.  
  
"That's right, Neal." Peter straddled Neal's legs to get right in his face and forced his voice to sound calm when he wanted to scream. "Just keep breathing. Keep breathing." Peter wanted to ask somebody what had happened but he couldn't afford to lose Neal's focus. He couldn't afford to lose Neal. "Can you slow it down? Take deeper breaths?"  
  
Neal shook his head franticly, his hands flailing at his sides until Diana knelt down and grasped one, Clinton the other. Neal's breaths were coming faster if anything, barely any air getting inside his lungs with each strangled gasp. Peter didn't understand how this had happened, but he understood that unless he got help soon Neal was going to run out of oxygen. "Keep breathing, Neal," Peter coached, keeping the horror he felt locked up in his chest. "Just breathe, you can breathe."  
  
Neal shook his head again, and then Diana and Clinton both moved away and somebody was pushing Peter away from his spot in front of Neal. "No!"  
  
Diana was in his face then, tugging him away. "Peter! Peter, the EMTs are here to help Neal."  
  
Peter slumped and let Diana and Jones pull him back, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the people working on Neal. Quicker than Peter expected, they had Neal loaded onto a narrow gurney and one of the EMTs was pumping at a respirator bag over Neal's mouth, helping him breathe. There was no question of Peter staying behind. He followed them into the elevator and then into the back of the ambulance, and it was there, with only strangers around, that Peter could take Neal's hand and say the things he hadn't been able to say in front of his fellow agents.  
  
"Just breathe, sweetheart. I love you. We love you." Peter kept talking even when he was sure Neal was too far gone to hear him.  
  
In the emergency room, a six-foot-five security guard blocked Peter from following Neal into the treatment area, and he took the clipboard somebody handed him as he went to find a seat. Peter's chest ached and he realized he was breathing almost as badly as Neal had been, too-quick gasps that were only feeding the terror in his mind. He dropped the clip-board to the floor and sat forward with his face in his hands. He focused on slowing down his breaths, and the heartbeat pounding in his ears slowed down as well.  
  
With the clipboard back in his shaky hands, Peter dialed his wife.  
  
"Hi, hon!"  
  
"Oh God," Peter said, not sure how to start telling El what had happened.  
  
"What?" Her voice was sharp now. "What happened? What?"  
  
"It's Neal. He got sick--I don't know how it happened so fast, but I knew he wasn't well and _damn it_."  
  
"How bad?"  
  
"He was barely getting any breath in. It--" Peter swallowed hard. "It was pretty bad, hon. I don't know what's going on yet."  
  
"Okay," she said, her voice steady now. "Okay, what hospital?"  
  
Peter told her where to find them, then hung up and turned his attention to the forms in his lap. If any of the information he could give would help them take care of Neal, then he was sure as hell going to fill it in.  
  
By the time a doctor came out to find Peter he was no longer alone. El was at his side, holding his hand tight, and Diana and Jones were sitting across from them, looking a few minutes away from restless pacing.  
  
"Peter Burke?"  
  
Peter looked up to see a woman around Neal's age with a tablet in her hand turning her head to search the room. "Here," he said, standing to meet her, and El stood up with him.  
  
The doctor walked over and shook Peter's hand. "Mr. Burke, I'm Dr. Chay, and I've been treating Neal today."  
  
"It's Agent Burke, but you can call me Peter. Please just tell me what's going on."  
  
"Do you mind if I sit?" Dr. Chay sat down without waiting for a reply, and the rest of them sat back down as well, leaning in to hear what she had to say.  
  
"Neal arrived here in respiratory distress caused by pneumonia--"  
  
"Is he alive?" Peter couldn't wait any longer; he needed to know.  
  
"Yes, he's very much alive. However, his lungs are in pretty bad shape right now, and he needs to be on a ventilator so we're admitting him to the ICU. He's being transferred up there right now."  
  
"He can't breathe on his own?" El asked, tears in her voice.  
  
"He _can_ breathe on his own, but not very well. He just needs some help right now so that his body can get enough oxygen while his lungs recover, and the ventilator will assist him with that. Also, having him on the vent allows us to sedate him without fear that it will suppress his breathing. It's the best thing for him right now, but I expect he'll be off the ventilator and out of the ICU in about a day."  
  
"You expect?"  
  
"I can't promise anything, of course, but Neal is young and otherwise healthy. Acute respiratory distress is much more dangerous in people who are older or who have long-term illnesses, but I believe Neal will come through this. His records indicate that he was here for a near-drowning just a few days ago?"  
  
"Yes, he was briefly knocked unconscious when he fell into a swimming pool, but he started breathing again as soon as I got him out of the water."  
  
"I think that what happened is that some bacteria got into his lungs via the aspiration of water or stomach contents or both, and along with the irritation from the chlorine in the water the pneumonia developed."  
  
"He seemed just a little bit sick yesterday. How could he--this--today--"  
  
"Pneumonia can get worse very quickly sometimes, especially in the case of near-drownings. But he got help in time. This is a good thing." Dr. Chay smiled, and Peter thought it was supposed to be reassuring but seeing Neal alive was the only thing that could reassure him. "If you go up to the fourth floor, you can find the ICU waiting room. It'll be a while before you'll be able to see Neal, but if you want to wait somebody will find you there."  
  
"Thank you," Peter said, his head spinning from the rush of information. The doctor nodded then stood and walked back through the heavy doors into the treatment area.  
  
"Boss?"  
  
Peter shook himself and turned to look at Diana. "What?"  
  
"I assume you're going to stay here. Are you okay if Jones and I head back to the office?"  
  
"That's a good idea. Thanks, Di."  
  
"No problem. Keep us up to date with how Neal's doing?"  
  
"We will," El said, squeezing Peter's hand.  
  
~~~  
  
The hours passed slowly in the ICU waiting room. El called June and Mozzie, who were both out of town, but Peter didn't talk to them. He didn't know what to say. He sat holding El's hand and talked to Neal's new doctor, a pulmonologist, when he came around. Finally, in the early afternoon a nurse came out and told them that they could see Neal for a few minutes.  
  
"He's going to look rough, but he's stable. We mostly need to let him rest while the antibiotics and other medications do their work."  
  
"We understand," El said, and Peter nodded mutely before walking through the door to Neal's cubicle. The nurse hadn't been wrong--Neal did look awful, though Peter tried to hold onto the fact that his color was better than it had been during those horrible moments in the hallway and in the ambulance. It was difficult to see Neal so still, but at least he wasn't scared, terrified the way he'd been as he struggled to pull in air. Peter took Neal's hand, relieved to find it warm, and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the back of Neal's hand. He forced himself to look at the equipment hooked up to Neal--the tube in his throat connected to the wheezing respirator, the IVs feeding into the crook of his elbow, the blood pressure cuff on his arm, the sticky patches on his chest.  
  
"We can't lose him," Peter whispered, tears burning behind his eyes.  
  
"We won't." El brushed tears out of her eyes and straightened her shoulders as she held Neal's other hand. "We won't."  
  
El held her free hand out over the bed, and Peter reached out to take it. Together, they made a closed circuit, and Peter could only hope that somewhere inside of himself Neal felt that connection still.  
  
~~~  
  
Peter couldn't face the idea of leaving the hospital while Neal wasn't even breathing on his own, but life had to continue. A few hours later, after another brief visit with Neal, El went to get some dinner for them both then went home to take care of Satchmo. She would come back in the morning, unless Peter called her to come back sooner. He prayed to a god he wasn't sure he believed in that he wouldn't have to call her back sooner.  
  
Peter slept in brief snatches of time in the padded waiting room chairs, and when the doctor came to find him after the early morning rounds he thought that he would be sick.  
  
"I have good news," the pulmonologist said before Peter could speak. The antibiotics and the other medications are working, and the inflammation in Neal's lungs has reduced. His breathing is much stronger, and over the next few hours or so we'll wean him off of the ventilator and the sedation. After that, he'll be transferred to a regular room for a couple of days until we see that he's adequately oxygenated on room air."  
  
"But he'll be okay?" Peter's brain felt blurry from too little sleep and too much worry, and he needed something he could hold on to.  
  
"Yes, I believe so. His vital signs are much improved from the time of his admission, and I see no reason for that to change. Once Neal is discharged, he'll still be looking at a significant amount of time until his lungs fully recover, and it's important that he take care of himself during that time because a recurrence of the pneumonia would likely be more serious, but we'll discuss that more another day."  
  
"I'll make sure that he takes care of himself." Peter ran a hand over his face, relief and exhaustion washing over him. "Can I see him?"  
  
"Yes. Actually, since we're reducing the sedation, it would be good for him to have a familiar face around to keep him calm. Just try not to wake him up before he's ready."  
  
"Okay." Peter thought that Neal could sleep all day if he wanted, as long as he was breathing, as long as Peter could be there to see it for himself.  
  
Peter called El and then Diana to pass on the good news then found a nurse to let him back in to see Neal. To Peter, Neal looked the same as he had during the night--horribly still, terribly pale, strangely small--but he had to take the doctor's word for it that Neal was improving. Peter sat in the small chair next to the bed, took Neal's hand in his, and leaned forward to rest his head against the side of the bed. With the mechanical hiss of the ventilator in his ears, Peter fell asleep.  
  
A tug on his hand woke Peter an indeterminate amount of time later, and he stood up so quickly he almost tripped over the legs of the chair. "Neal?"   
  
Neal opened his eyes and looked around the room then over at Peter, his eyes wide with fear but not the frantic terror of the day before. He lifted his free hand to grasp the tube coming out of his mouth, and Peter reached over to stop him. "Hey, relax, you're okay. You're going to be okay."  
  
Neal frowned and made a choking sound around the ventilator tube, and Peter was in the middle of trying to figure out how to hold both of Neal's hands and hit the call button at the same time when a nurse hurried in. "Okay, Mr. Caffrey? Mr. Caffrey, we're going to take that out now that you're doing a good job of breathing. Just hold on and look at your friend here while we take care of this."  
  
Neal followed instructions for once and locked his eyes on Peter's while a second woman in scrubs entered the room and the nurse checked Neal's vitals again before slowly pulling the ventilator tube out of Neal's throat. Neal choked and gagged and squeezed hard on Peter's hand, but in the end he had an oxygen cannula in his nose, and when the nurse spooned some ice chips into his mouth he closed his eyes and relaxed his hold on Peter.  
  
"Here you go." She held out the cup of ice chips to Peter. "You can give him more of these if he wants, for his throat."  
  
"Thank you," Peter said, keeping his eyes on Neal. After that, they were alone again, and Peter wasn't sure if Neal was awake or asleep. "Neal?"   
  
Neal opened his eyes. "Hey," he said, his voice wrecked. "Ugh."  
  
"Do you remember what happened?"  
  
Neal nodded slowly, moving his head like it was heavy and unbalanced. "How long?"  
  
"Just overnight. It's Saturday morning now. El will be back in a little bit, and she's going to be glad to see you awake."  
  
"Me too." Neal swallowed, grimacing with pain, and Peter spooned some more of the ice chips into his mouth.  
  
Peter sighed and stretched his shoulders against the ache in his back. "I'm just so glad, so goddamn glad that you're going to be okay. If--" Peter shook his head, too many words and feelings inside to let them all out. "Forget it, I can't be mad at you right now. I love you. Especially when you're breathing."  
  
"I love you too," Neal replied in his raspy, unfamiliar voice, and Peter bent over the bed and pressed a kiss to Neal's mouth and then his forehead, right at the bridge of his nose. Neal gave Peter a sleepy smile then closed his eyes and drifted off. Peter watched him until the nurse came back and made him leave. They were transferring Neal to a regular room; he was going to be okay.  
  
~~~  
  
A week later, Neal lay alone in the middle of the bed and stretched in the early morning sunshine. One benefit of getting so sick that he'd traumatized a bunch of FBI agents was that Neal was allowed to convalesce at the Burkes' house. For the last four nights since he came home from the hospital, Neal had slept in between Peter and Elizabeth. When he woke up coughing in the middle of the night he had somebody to rub his back, somebody to help him splint his ribs.  
  
It was annoying sometimes, when Peter reminded him to take his medicine as if Neal couldn't or wouldn't manage it on his own or when Elizabeth plied him with herbal tea and jello and blankets. But the attention was comforting, and Neal could admit to himself at least that the last thing he wanted was to be alone. Even when Peter and Elizabeth were both out of the house, Neal had Satchmo, and he thought they were perfect companions right then. Neal, like Satchmo, was spending most of his days sleeping and eating and occasionally turning himself in circles trying to get comfortable.  
  
But Neal was getting better, and like Satchmo he had random bursts of energy that made him want to run around until it was time to sleep again. Neal was just about to get up and go find somebody to play with when the bedroom door opened and Peter and Elizabeth walked in, still wearing their pajamas. "Good timing," Neal said, smiling at them both in a way that he hoped looked more seductive than sickly.  
  
Elizabeth laughed then sat on the bed next to Neal and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn't their first kiss since Neal had come home, not even close, but it was the first kiss that was more than love and connection and comfort. This was a kiss with the heat and promise of something more, and Neal pushed his hands under her nightgown to feel the soft swell of her hips against his skin.  
  
The bed dipped as Peter climbed up next to them, and Neal tipped his head back to make more room for the kisses Peter was trailing along his neck. "Are you sure you feel well enough for this? I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"You won't hurt me." Neal took one hand away from Elizabeth's curves and slipped it under Peter's t-shirt to feel the sturdy strength of his chest. "I'll probably fall asleep afterward, but I'm okay, and I'm alive."  
  
"Damn right you are," Peter growled quietly.  
  
"And I want to feel alive, right here with you." He tugged both of them closer to make the plural clear.  
  
"We're here," Elizabeth said as she knelt up and straddled Neal's hips. He was hard already, and she guided him inside her, smooth and easy. When Neal gasped at the first surge of pleasure, Peter took his mouth in a long, hot kiss and teased at his nipples. The sex wasn't wild, but Neal felt the passion in the gentle dance between the three of them. When he came far too soon, deep inside Elizabeth with Peter's tongue in his mouth and Peter's hands holding him steady, Neal felt how alive he was, how very alive every part of his body could be.  
  
As he let go and tumbled back down into sleep, Neal understood as if for the first time how much he wanted to stay there, alive and in love, forever. For as long as he possibly could.


End file.
